James
by The Infant Phenomenon
Summary: Another infamous Captain Hook story. More like, pre-captain story, who he was before.


James 

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. J. M Barrie does, I believe, although he's dead. 

This story reads a little like a very essay-ish/biography thingy at first, but I promise it gets interesting. I am debating how far back I should go with this. Back to Flint and Barbecue? Should I have a possible romantic pairing? Who with? (If I do, it will be slash.) I have no real direction. Help. C+C are needed if I am to continue this. 

Oh! BTW. Just so there are no mix ups, James Hocke is Captain Hook. Savvy? 

~~

As most stories follow the proper recipe for story telling, we are quite accustomed to begin at the beginning. This story ought to start at the end and go backward to the beginning. That would be the way Peter would do it to spite the common adult way, contrary boy that he is. But this is not Peter's story, this is his nemesis, James Hook's story, and therefore we shall begin in the proper place. 

James Hocke certainly did not regard his character as being unreasonably severe nor intolerably repelling. He did however have perfect faith in the classic system of reprimand where children were concerned. When he was a lad, he never took for granted his education, and therefore was a highly disciplined student with a high regard for authority. Austere and unusually prudish in his youth, he never could completely allow himself to surrender to the happy independence of play. This made him an outcast, one whom the children hedonistically harassed in their catty, vicious ways. This therefore caused him to shun the nonsensical trivialities of childhood that his peers indulged in with glutinous merriment. Of course, one must understand this young man's upbringing. As the son of a highly regarded minister, he wasn't perhaps the wealthiest, but there was a certain expectation for his breeding. He was therefore sent to only the best Institutions. Then, there were the sons of the rich imperialistic nobles and scholars of the era, celebrating their wealth, fortune and social position. They bequeathed an air of righteous self-indulgence to their spoiled impressionable children who were then meant to carry on these ridiculous behaviors. His father on the other hand was puritanical and old-fashioned. Punishments were just what they were meant to be, and in the end the disobedient learned his lesson. His mother was of a softer breed, fair, benevolent and subservient, as all good wives ought to be. His private name was _Jas_; given to him by his mother; as she had grown quite fond of referring to him as it in his youngest years, and kept up for sake of the tender maternal nostalgia. 

His respect for his father stemmed from the beatings. Accepting his Father's superiority and strength, he adopted his father's rigid ways and even passionately surrendered himself to education in order to gain likewise respect and to escape from the world of sloth and ignorance. Much to his father's chagrin, he was never able to really accept his birth faith, as he was a logical person with an apt towards being highly and almost tiresomely skeptical. 

As a professor of Language Arts at the Academy James passionately threw himself into the subject he taught, and could not for the life of him, possibly comprehend why his pupil's were so indifferent! He was perhaps a young teacher at 27 years, enthusiastic and determined to make impact on the fresh young minds that sat in his classroom for the 2 and a quarter hour period. Not yet jaded to the implications of his position, he still considered himself an important messenger of knowledge. 

Not to say that all the children were apathetic, slothful, egotistical rats of the elite, there were, (as there always will be), the pretentious scholars and the bashful intellectuals but they were a kind unto themselves that neither incited his wrath nor made any real lasting impression upon him. 

Today the students had been particularly rowdy since it was a Friday. It was intolerably warm and the air was stagnant with the smell of turning earth, the rot and filth of streets and the musty stench of old texts. All were fidgety and irritable in their suffocating uniforms fastened to the neck (by code, obviously). James had turned his back to the class writing sentences upon the board when a fight had broken loose. Thomas has apparently hit Nicholas Fenton with his dictionary when he had caught Nicholas pouring his ink into his book sack. Of course it was naturally a just reaction. 

Thomas Roy was an unobtrusive, weak sort of child, and James, while fast with his punishments, and rarely inclined to be merciful, hesitated before bringing down the paddle. However he carried on, as to prove he would not stand for any sort of misconduct within his classroom. Of course, the insolent Nicholas Fenton he was less gentle with. One ought to have good form, follow the rules of engagement. One makes a rule, and one must carry it out never mind the circumstance. 

Such was the character of the Professor. 

James was a refined man with acquired taste and cultivated mannerisms. His salary was such that it was fair, but not exceedingly large. He was able to afford a moderately decent set of rooms on the outskirts of London, which he had decorated with his fine taste and sense of practicality. However, he had a flare for historical design, and therefore his rooms suggested a touch of elegant 17th century nobility. He was an eccentric man with eclectic tastes, a man of fascinating thought, and interestingly enough, a bachelor by choice. 

He was typically seen as an aristocratically handsome man with a charming demeanor. Of course this contrasts to the cold and irreproachable image earlier portrayed, but James was a dynamic person of almost bipolar tendencies. He had long black hair, which he took pains to keep orderly (as it was curly and terribly unmanageable at times) and was held out of his face by being loosely tied back. His eyes were a color blue to rival that of the ocean, and held just as much depth that one might drown in his penetrating gaze (given that he would even gift you with true unmasked eye contact). He was impeccably dressed in the finest fashions, (if not a bit outdated). Despite his quirks, one never found him the center of a joke, as he was a highly revered and intimidating man. He had had a taste of love, fleeting as it was, earlier in his career. A young lady whom had singularly soured him on romance, but she left a lasting impression on him. The story is not important, but we must understand that James was from here on, embittered towards love. (This is not to say that he was embittered towards women; on the contrary he was always to be known as a perfect gentleman.) 

It was a rainy, foggy miserable day; the day James Hocke met a certain unhappy fate. He was carrying his books in his leather satchel and was stalking to school in a foul temper. His rain cloak billowed out behind him giving him the appearance of a wrathful, red, sea anemone. Of course, as he hustled past weepy-eyed women, and the lethargy of a cold, monotonous morning's crowd, he failed to see the carriage that had lost control- barreling at him full force. He looked up at the whinnying horses, and as the cabin collapsed, the wheels furiously screeched hellish metal against pavement, and in a blink, all was black. Such was the end of James Hocke. 

And here is where our story truly begins, with one, James Hocke (Or Jas as he preferred to be called) waking on a sandy shore, soaking wet with a briny residue dried to his skin, clothes sodden with sand and water. His hair lay about him tangled in a great mass of seaweed. Gulls and other scavengers eyeing him suspiciously. A carcass to pray on perhaps. But yet, a living carcass. The man stirred at last, and squeezed his eyelids shut in order to block out the blinding sun. It was a beautiful day, clear skies, warm breeze… 

The first thing that really occurred to James was how he wasn't quite sure this wasn't where he was supposed to be. He really didn't remember. He recalled certain parts quite clearly, and others, rather vaguely. He knew his name was certainly James Hocke, he knew he was a professor, he knew he was going to school. He did not remember where exactly he lived or where he had lived or anything about his previous location. And he recalled the shrill sound of metal shrieking against concrete, and some cries, and then black. Nothing. Nothingness continuum. 

He groaned. His head ached incredibly. In fact his whole body rather ached as if it hadn't been used for a great number of years. It was an altogether eerie and disturbing prospect to James. One that he quickly dismissed. 

The last thought he had was of a…a flying boy clad in green. Then black. Once again Hocke drifted off into the Neverland of his unconscious state.

James was hungry. He definitely knew this because his stomach roared ferociously, and a wave of nausea ran through him like a tsunami. He awoke to find himself in a cot, with a scrappy, and filthy rag over his knees as some sort of attempt at a sheet. He found he was in a rather decrepit cabin, and judging by the steady lulling- a ship! Just then, the source of the smell entered the room. An Irish Bo'sun carried in a plate and set it down beside him. James cleared his throat. The congenial man leapt, nearly dropping the food.

" I see yeh woke up! It's about time! Some thought ye were dead. I just thought ye might be hungry." 

" Where am I?" Hocke inquired without much force. 

" Why ye're on the ol' Jolly Roger, under the Captain Barbecue. Good man he is to be pickin' you up and rescuin' you and all. My name is Smee."

An interesting thing one must understand about the congenial Irish Bo'sun Smee is that he is by nature a servant, one willing to do anything to please those in authority. Such is his disposition. 

" If it is not too much to require, may I speak with your captain, er…Mr. Smee?" 

The pleasantly rotund man grinned at the other man's oddly polite formality. 

" Sure thing, mate, I'll just go and get…"

" No need, Smee, get back to yer' chores, yer' excused," A raspy baritone voice echoed through the cabin, and a burly, thick bearded man cam to stand in the doorway, " _I_ am Captain Barbecue, and thou art on me ship. What'd they call ye?"

James stared at him blankly. He was like all preconceived notions he had ever had of Pirates: grimy and ugly, clad in a long tattered coat, with ragged looking brown robe underneath, all tied together by straps of leather and hemp twine, belts and whatnot. At his hip he wore his sword, and in a pocket bag hung around his shoulder was what appeared to be a bone with dried-salted meat still around its bulbous end. He wore hideous leather boots with large rusted ornamental buckles over ripped-ancient leggings. And generally, he smelt of rot, rum, brine and urine. James unintentionally grimaced. 

Barbecue twitched impatiently and rolled his eyes. 

" What is yer name, man? We here have to call ye by somethin'..."

" James Hocke."

" And where'd ye be from?" 

" I…"

" Good enough, mate, ye be one of me crew now, eat somethin' and get some meat on yer' scrawny bones, hell knows ye'll need it…and if ye ain't obligin' to be one of me crew, then I'll see yer' scurvy lot off me ship n' sell yer' scalp to the injuns. Tomorrow you can expect yer' self to be moved to the barracks w' the rest of me men, seeing as yer' already much improved and all… so be comfy while ye still can, mate! " Barbecue hacked out a mirthful guffaw and left James' cabin. 

There was not much of an option to consider, and he knew that if he went along with it all, he'd be safe for long enough to at least try to figure out what exactly what had happened to him these past few days. 

He ended up second from the top in filthy, hard cot with stains littering the surface. He bunked with two others, Starkey on the top and Smee on the bottom. Smee was the kindest to him, and attempted to make his adjustment to the life of a pirate transition more smoothly. He had a strange inkling that poor, pathetically domestic Smee, was the butt of many jokes, and somehow his kindness towards the man in return gave him less credibility as any real man. He had begun to realize many foreign feelings in the last few months, especially those of competitive machismo and brutishness. For one, he had grown accustomed to the way of life: the rum, the brawls, the lack of civilized manners. 

Losing credibility with these men he had claimed to care nothing for the opinions of, clawed at him, and made him entirely self-conscious when around Smee. 

However, for some odd reason, he could not bring himself to be cruel to his only forgivingly kind acquaintance, and therefore became fiercely protective of him. Not that he wasn't aware this caused vicious talk behind his back, but he realized, these days, it was just that, only _behind his back._ He had streak of sadism that exposed itself in Indian battles near their camping grounds, and especially in drunken brawls with the crew. Just a few nights ago, in a foul mood he had brandished a surin and gutted a particularly repulsive Lug that had incessantly annoyed him for days with his drunken insults. The crew had begrudgingly come to respect him, and therefore leave him to his own business.

That was, of course, fine by him, as he was so 

It had been a long day, and he was overcome with exhaustion, yet, he couldn't sleep. Barbecue had beckoned him to his cabin earlier, and had taught him to chart on the Neverlandic ocean maps. It seemed as if they were to sail in almost a spiral, but… not… He couldn't quite understand it. The sea was undoubtedly vast, but how far out did it expand? Was this not a world from where he came? Contemplating it exhausted him mercilessly... like a dog chasing it's tail…like figuring out if the universe ends, and if so, then what, therefore, is on the other side…the most unreachable concepts… 

And when one disappeared or was killed, it seemed as if a person was automatically replaced. And soon after, the man before would be forgotten, and the new man, it seemed, had been there all along… it frightened him. Would he be forgotten if he died? Where would he go? Back to the place from whence he had come? The longer he had been here, the farther away his memories of that other place became…

And what was their purpose? The Jolly Roger seemed to be the only pirate ship, so there was no competition. There seemed to be no definitive government of any sort to prohibit them, they couldn't go looting since there were no towns or (European-like) civilized places, so no towns, no ports. They could find treasure…but what is it treasure they had had, lost, and forgotten about long ago? And it wasn't as if there was much to buy with the treasure. What James had seen of the island… was bizarre and fantastical: mermaids, fairies, Indians, and other tribes of all sorts lived in this lush and temperate land. He had heard of Indians in the Americas, word had come that towns were being set aflame, woman brutally raped, even children killed. They were savage and pagan. Not so unlike the inhabitants of the island. The geography was as much of an anarchy in itself; being inexplicably varied and unsettle-able: mountains, lakes, rivers, plains, forests… the whole place seemed to re-generate like it lived off a life-source different than anything that could possibly be rationalized. It seemed fictional. James vehemently despised fiction, being pragmatic and all. 

Take away everything you know to be true, and that is how he felt. Which is why he was slowly becoming superstitious and paranoid. Two aspects of his character he genuinely wished to extirpate.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the cool, salty air; the somber night's sky reflecting perfectly off the water… it seemed as if for just a fleeting moment, James could grasp the precious answers to all his questions…but then, once again they lay just over the horizon, serene and divinely unattainable. 

After a time, it seemed the Universe and the Neverlandic Sea united to one entity, eternally indivisible. The realm of only the Great Morpheus. 

And such conjecture took place every night, out on the decks, after the others were asleep. Such serenity afforded one enlightenment… at least to some degree. 

" Chasing the horizon is dangerous you know." 

James nodded in agreement. Not at all surprised at the Captain's sudden emergence, as he too had an affinity for thinking after dark. 

" Tomorrow we're to head to skull rock… I was thinking we ought to dock there."

***… yeah. Help is needed. Alms, alms for the pooooor. 


End file.
